


Bottles of Thedas

by kitbug



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Finding strange liquors on the ground and drinking them, Gen, chapters after 12 reordered since publishing to fit codex order again, is how you bond as friends, oh look the solavellan finally reared its head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 20:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11952369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbug/pseuds/kitbug
Summary: A series of 20 ficlets inspired by the codex entries of the Bottles of Thedas collection





	1. Chasind Sack Mead

**Author's Note:**

> This started as just a writing exercise. I'm trying to write more and be less self-conscious about it. Also trying my hand at short little stories. I'm actually kind of proud of this project so we'll see if I can finish it. Non-beta'd and hardly edited, just for fun. Codex entry and location will be posted in the end notes of each chapter.

“Find anything exciting, Ren?”  Dorian peeked over the elf’s shoulder as she rooted through a tent in the Red Templar encampment they’d just cleared out.

The Inquisitor held up a wineskin that had caught her eye in a pile of junk.  It was painted with colorful geometric designs she’d never seen before, and sloshed back and forth, still heavy with drink.  “Just this.  I have no idea what it is.”  

“A wineskin?  Not many people still use those, not when bottles are so readily available and so much more sturdy.”

She popped the stopper and gave the liquid a sniff.  “Smells like alcohol and honey.  And something floral?”

“Looks Chasind,” Cassandra commented as she joined them.  “Strange.  The templars must have been Ferelden.  I don’t believe they would cross the Frostbacks to trade.”

Ren considered the skin thoughtfully, weighing the consequences, before shrugging and taking a long swig from the skin as the Seeker sputtered a protest about drinking strange things found on the ground.  “Not bad, actually.  Sweet and smooth.”

“I’ve never had anything from the Chasind.  Give it here, let me try.”  Dorian held his hand out for the skin, and then quickly retracted it as her face suddenly puckered.  “What’s that look for?

“The aftertaste is awful.”  She thrust the wineskin at him, forcing him to take it.  “The alcohol doesn’t hit you until the end, and it’s _strong_."

He popped the stopper and took a whiff before tucking it into his horse’s saddle bag.  “Let’s save this to wash down the ram tonight.  I’m getting rather tired of it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chasind Sack Mead - Emerald Graves, camp north of Southfinger tower  
> A brutishly strong honey liquor, reminiscent of warm summer days, apple blossoms on the wind, with an unexpected aftertaste of Father going off to war, never to return. Bitter, to say the least.


	2. Garbolg's Backcountry Reserve

“Garbolg?”  Varric eyed the bottle sitting in the middle of the table they’d requisitioned for the evening’s game of wicked grace.  “I’ve heard of him.  Famous dwarf brewer, died when his beard caught fire from the alcohol fumes.  Wasn’t his stuff outlawed like fifty years ago?”

“You are correct, Varric.” Cassandra said as she brought glasses over from the bar.

“She doesn’t care, does she?  This is literal moonshine.”  Varric unstoppered the bottle and wrinkled his nose as the pungent stench of corn whiskey permeated the air.  He considered going to the barkeep to get something mix it with, but the shit the Iron Bull gave them to drink last time had probably been worse.

The Seeker nodded, frown etched into her brow.  “The Inquisitor is a law unto herself here,” she muttered, her tone indicating she’d already had this conversation and still wasn’t pleased by its outcome.

Varric shrugged.  “At least she isn’t crazy.”

“You would not be saying that if you knew where she found this today,”  Cassandra said with an arched eyebrow.

“She dug it up in the plague swamp?”  Varric grimaced and then thought about it.  “Well, I doubt anything could survive the alcohol content of this shit.”

“That is what she said, as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garbolg's Backcountry Reserve - Fallow Mire, house northwest of Fisher’s End camp  
> Likely dropped to avoid seizure by authorities, or because of seizure due to drinking it. Garbolg only brewed from 8:74 to 8:92 Blessed, killed when the vapors in his beard spontaneously combusted.


	3. Golden Scythe 4:90 Black

Ren hefted the bottle between her hands.  The sun had stripped all color from the label where it had been left exposed to noon light shining down the mineshaft.  The unexposed part of the label had a scrawl she couldn’t make out, except for the year.  This liquor was over 400 years old, if she remembered what Josephine taught her about the chantry’s ages.

“This is weird.”

“What is weird about it?”  Solas asked.  “Other than the fact that it is somehow still intact at the bottom of an abandoned mineshaft.”

“It’s sweltering here in the sunlight, but the bottle feels like it’s been chilled in ice.”  She handed it to him. “Is it runed or something?”

Solas took the bottle and examined it with both physical and magical gaze.  True to her words, it was cool to the touch, but he could sense nothing otherworldly about it.  “No.  This is just an ordinary bottle.  The only thing unique about it is its age.”

Ren frowned and took the bottle back.  She attempted to pry the stopper out with the tip of her dagger, but age and disturbance made it break apart.  It made a sizzling hiss as it disintegrated on contact with the liquid inside.  The smell coming from the bottle made her feel slightly sick to her stomach.  She shared a concerned glance with the other elf before upending it and pouring the questionable liquor down a crack in the bedrock.

“Maybe… we don’t tell Dorian this one was full and just add the bottle to my collection?”

“Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golden Scythe 4:90 Black - Forbidden Oasis, bottom of the spiral mine  
> This battlefield spirit maintains a chill even in direct sunlight, which it appears to absorb. Optimal serving is by the drop. Contact with exposed flesh is discouraged, but likely inevitable.


	4. Legacy White Shear

“Ren, this bottle is worth a fortune!  Where did you even find this?”  Dorian called over the bannister to where she lay with a book on Solas’ couch.    


She gave him a signal to wait and made her way up the stairs to join them so they wouldn’t have to keep yelling at each other.  Dorian was much more knowledgeable about Thedosian liquors, so she’d left it in his chair to take a look at when he had down time.  “Suledin Keep, buried in the snow.  Why?  What is it?  I couldn’t read the label.”

“Legacy White Shear, predating the First Blight, if I’ve translated this correctly.  Ancient Tevene can be rather trying,” Dorian said, marveling.  “The vintage alone would be worth twice my weight in sovereigns.  And this blue color, could it be…?”

Ren nodded and took the bottle back from him.  “Lyrium, probably.  I didn’t actually find the bottle, Cole did.  Said he heard it singing.”

“Remarkable.  I can’t wait to try it.”  He took on a pleading puppy look.  “We are going to drink it, yes?  It’s not every century you stumble onto something like this.”

She snorted.  “Of course we are!  Just don’t tell Vivienne, she was prowling the wine cellar for something rare and expensive for her gathering this evening.”

Dorian solemnly laid his hand across his chest.  “I swear to take this secret to my grave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legacy White Shear - Emprise du Lion, tower near mine entrance  
> Peculiar and rare, a single run of this spirit took color and what has been optimistically called flavor from lyrium in the cask's bilge hoop. A sipping whisky if you value your innards. Circa 790 T.E.


	5. Sun Blonde Vint-1

“Well, what do have we here?”  Empty waterskin forgotten, Dorian nudged the smooth river rocks aside with his foot to reveal the half-obscured golden glass bottle.  “Either the Venatori or someone in their employ has been through here.  I’d know this Tevinter brew anywhere.  It’s not cheap.”

“Yeah?  Is it any good?” Ren asked, leaning over the neck of her hart to get a better look.  The animal snorted and dipped his head to get a drink from the river.

“If by good, you mean strong, yes,” he replied and tossed her the bottle so he could refill his waterskin.  “There’s more than just alcohol in it, if you catch my meaning.  As far as tasting good, no, not really.  Catsbane helps balance the flavor and cure the rather intense hangover it causes, but I don’t believe that grows this far south?”

Ren nodded her head and pried the cork out.  Her nose crinkled at the sharp, stale scent of deep mushrooms.  Not enough to poison anyone, but probably enough to cause some spectacular hallucinations when combined with the alcohol.  That explained the need for catsbane, to settle the stomach and head.  “So what you’re saying is, we probably shouldn’t down this bottle in one sitting.”

“Not if we want to be able to move in the morning, no.”  Dorian chuckled and remounted his spirited mare.

“You know Bull will take that as a challenge.”  She replaced the cork and nestled it into the bottom of her saddlebag.

Dorian sighed.  “He always does.  Maybe keep that one hidden until we get back to Skyhold.  It should make for an exciting night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sun Blonde Vint-1 - Emerald Graves, riverbank at Silver Falls  
> Tevinter-brewed for a very discreet clientele, and strong enough to fluster a Tranquil. An almost weightless spirit best served with a powdering of catsbane as a flavor enhancer and antidote.


	6. Aqua Magus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gave me the most trouble so far, I felt kind of intimidated writing Cole and Solas.

“You seem agitated, Cole. Is everything alright?”

The spirit boy had been pacing in a confused, disjointed spiral that slowly moved towards the south.  He stopped when Solas called out to him.  “I hear the song, but it’s… strange.   Muddled, murky, muted, like music heard underwater.  I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.”

“The song?”

“Lyrium.  I think.”  He shook his head.  “But it’s not quite right.”

“Well, you seem to be trailing in this direction.  The scouts reported an old logging camp a short distance from here.  Perhaps that is where it is coming from.”  Solas used his staff as a walking stick, tired after a long day in the sweltering desert sun.  The cold night air was a refreshing change, but not energizing.  “Shall we?”

Cole fell into line at his heels, shuffling through the sand.  “Yes.  Thank you.”

They crested the hill overlooking the abandoned camp, half buried by years of windblown sand.  Cole perked as they neared.

“I can hear it better now.  It’s very strange.  The melody twists and curls and echoes, like it wants to go one way but falls another.”  He fell to his knees and pushed sand away to reveal a brilliant blue glow.  Deeper he dug, unearthing a glass bottle with a label perfectly preserved by darkness and the dry desert air.   


Solas let out a quiet chuckle.  “Like it’s drunk?”

“Maybe.  Yes.”  Cole cocked his head to the side, listening, like a confused puppy.  “But it’s different than before.  That one hummed, a small forgotten tune, it didn’t sing like this.”

“You are referring to the bottle you found in Emprise du Lion?”  Solas took the bottle from the boy’s loose hand and examined it.  “The Inquisitor showed it to me.  This is far newer, and the lyrium concentration far higher.  The higher lyrium content in the alcohol is distorting the song.”

Cole nodded.  “She liked that one.  The lyrium tickled, dancing on her tongue.  This would be stronger.  She’ll like it, too.”

“Maybe a little too strong for someone who isn’t a mage,” Solas considered outloud.  Lyrium was easy to overdose on without the abilities to burn the excess energy.  “But it should be fine.  Dorian will know the danger and consume the lion’s share, and she’ll wait to share with him.”

The boy blinked at him.  “There’s a lion in Skyhold?”

“Just a figure of speech.  Let’s go back to camp, and you can give it to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aqua Magus - Hissing Wastes, outside burial grounds south of logging camp  
> Fine spirits infused with a bit of refined lyrium. Potentially fatal if ingested in quantity.


	7. Dragon Piss

The Iron Bull looked up from his mug as the Inquisitor approached.  Her face was schooled into a neutral, innocent expression, but her large, green eyes betrayed it, gleaming with mischief.  Her hands were tucked behind her back, hiding something from him.  He gave no suspicion away as he greeted her with a polite nod.

“What can I do for you, boss?”

“Got a present for you, Bull.  And your boys, if you feel like sharing.  I found it yesterday, while helping Blackwall look for his warden stuff.”

The brow over his lone eye arched pointedly as he recalled exactly where she’d gone that day.  On one hand, her gifts tended towards rare and exotic alcohol or fancy new weaponry.  On the other...  “You found something for me in a demon-infested plague hole?”

Ren laughed, completely unoffended by his tone.  She probably expected it.  “Don’t judge just yet, Solas says it’s demon-free.  And plague-free.  I think you’ll like it.”  She drew her hands out from behind her back and handed him what was obviously a bottle wrapped in a cloth.

He accepted it with the trepidation one might have when receiving a live snakes and cautiously peeled back the fabric.  All his unease melted away into a delighted laugh he couldn’t hope to contain.  “It’s perfect, absolutely perfect.

He popped the cork with practiced ease and laughed again as the acrid smell made the elf wince.

“I hope that isn’t literal,” Ren said and surreptitiously started for the door.

Bull stopped her with a hand almost as wide as her shoulder and pulled her into the chair beside him, still grinning.

“KREM!” he bellowed.  “Get the boys!  Tonight we’re drinking Dragon Piss!”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Piss - Fallow Mire, house nw of 4th beacon  
> The name is probably figurative, but no one knows for sure.


	8. Hirol's Lava Burst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty stupid.

Varric sat at the head of the table, calmly sipping his wine and committing every detail in front of him to memory.    


The Iron Bull was bearing it the best of the group, only choking his drink down with a hoarse cough and blinking back tears.  He’d probably had it before.  True to his unflappable personality, he was pouring himself a second shot.

Cassandra’s face was beet red as she downed a few glasses of water in quick succession before slamming the cup on the table and gasping for air.

Blackwall was attempting to take a page out of the Seeker’s book of quiet stoicism, but failing miserably.  He mopped sweat dripping down his beard and softly cursed every decision he’d made to lead to this night.

Sera and the Inquisitor were faring the worst of the lot.  Despite their wildly different backgrounds, neither elf had been introduced to anything near the heat they had just ingested.  Ferelden was famous for its bland dishes, and the Dalish elf had never even heard of chile peppers.  Tears poured down their faces as they tried to drown the heat in their throats.

“I tried to warn them,” Dorian said as he brought over a pitcher of milk this time, hoping it would ease their suffering a little more than the water they’d been chugging.  He’d declined drinking, saying that he’d seen and suffered that liquor before at one of his classmate’s illicit parties.  It was famously banned outside the Deep Roads.

“That you did, Sparkler.  That you did,” Varric replied with a chuckle.  “Most dwarven brewers are insane, but Hirol was a special breed all his own.”

“It tastes like burning,” Ren gasped and slid bonelessly out of her chair to the floor.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hirol's Lava Burst - Crestwood, old town, drained lake  
> "It tastes like burning." Brewed exclusively in Kal'Hirol.


	9. Mackay's Epic Single Malt

“I’m surprised bears have such excellent taste in whiskey.”

Ren and Cassandra looked up from their field dressing of the bear carcass.  The Inquisitor had decided they were going to not let the meat go to waste and feed the inquisition scout camp tonight.    


“I’m sorry, what?”

In the back corner of the cave, as far from the blood spatter as possible, Dorian held up a bottle he’d found in a pile of bones.    


Cassandra sighed heavily.  “Haven’t you two found enough liquor on this trip?”

“My darling Cassandra, there’s no such thing as  _ enough _ liquor.  Especially of this calibre.”

Ren finished carving and tying the shank she’d been working on and went over to take a look.  “What’s so special about this one?”

“Mackay was known across the land as one of the best single malt brewers in Thedas.  He passed away several centuries ago, but legend has it he brewed so many barrels, his descendants are still bottling it.”  He kept it out of her bloodsoaked reach and stowed it into his saddlebag once she had a good look at it.  “Of course, if true, it’s worth so much money, they probably only have to bottle one barrel every decade or two”

“I… would actually like to try this one,” Cassandra grudgingly admitted as she wiped her blade clean on the bear’s fur.    


Dorian nodded and grinned.  “Of course you would, and you should!  Whiskey barrelled that long is smoother than an elven baby’s bottom.”

Ren choked on the water she’d been drinking out of her waterskin.  “Know that from experience, do you?”

“... that  _ is _ a rather terrible phrase, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mackay's Epic Single Malt - Emerald Graves, bear cave north of Chateau Onterre  
> This whisky is older than the Maker and smoother than elven baby-butt.


	10. West Hill Brandy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 90% of my google results for brandy said it tasted like lighter fluid, and the ones that did not were incredibly pretentious.

Dorian’s face scrunched up with distaste as he read the label on the bottle the Inquisitor handed to him.

“What’s with that face?” Ren asked, amused.  She only saw that particular expression when a particularly egregious outfit wandered in front of him.  “Is this one bad?  I’ve never had brandy.”

“It’s awful,” he replied and handed it back to her.  “Not this one in particular, I haven’t had it.  But brandy, in general, tends to taste like slightly fruity lamp oil.  It’s quite popular with Orlesian nobles and Tevinter magisters.  Another reason to dislike them, if you needed one.”

“So… what should we do with it?”  She’d learned her lesson with Hirol’s Lava Burst to take Dorian’s warnings to heart.  The man more than knew his liquor.

“That is an excellent question.  We certainly shouldn’t let it go to waste.”  Dorian stroked his mustache as he contemplated the fate of the bottle.  “Ah, I know!  Let’s take it to your ambassador.  She would know if this is a good variety.  If it is, she can use it for entertaining some pretentious Orlesians.  If it isn’t, we can take it down to the kitchens.  Even the cheapest brandy doesn’t go to waste in a dessert.”

“Really?”  Ren brightened at the mention of dessert.  The Dalish generally didn’t indulge in sweets, and, months later, the novelty had yet to wear off on her.  “What kind?”

“It pains me that you even have to ask.”  He slung an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the library to pay a visit to Josephine.  “You know, cherries are in season now.  If this is destined for the kitchens, let’s see we can’t tempt that new Orlesian chef into making a jubilee for dessert tonight.  And next time we’re in Val Royeaux, I’m treating you to crêpes suzette.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> West Hill Brandy - Western Approach, tower above astrarium cave  
> Notes of black currant with a honeysuckle finish. Also, tastes like brandy.


	11. Flames of Our Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a little longer and sillier than I intended, but let's go with it.

“Cullen!  Cullen!  Over here!  Cullen!”

Cullen let out a heavy sigh and turned to see the Inquisitor waving jovially to him from amidst a small group of her friends.  He had hoped to be in and out of the tavern quickly with a nightcap to nurse as he finished up his reports.  That was clearly not going to be the case tonight.  

As he approached, Ren scooted over on the bench until she was half on top of Dorian to make room for him.  The Tevinter didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, and pulled the giggling elf the rest of the way onto his lap.  She was well into her cups, face and ears flushed red with drink.  She clung to Dorian with one arm and held up the bottle of drink they had just started with other.  Her voice slurred slightly as she asked, “Care for some wine?”

Cullen’s reluctance to join them melted in a tide of nostalgia as he recognized the fiery spirit.  He slid into the offered place and accepted a glass with a small smile.  “I would, actually.  I haven’t had this since my training days as a templar.”

Varric took the bottle from Ren before she could spill it and filled Cullen’s glass.  “I didn’t think they let initiates drink.  Figured that was why your recruits spent so much time at the Rose,” he said with a wink.

Cullen nodded in thanks and elected to ignore the dwarf’s needling.  He took a sip of the wine and his eyes drifted shut as he remembered drinking and talking with the other recruits, as dragged out as he was from a rough day of training.  

“In Tevinter, soldiers traditionally drink this the night before marching off to battle,” Krem’s slightly gravelly tenor snapped him back to present.  “Is it the same down here, in the south?”

Cullen shook his head.  “No, it’s used for a rather... exuberant celebration of faith.”

“ _Exuberant_ ?  Templars being exuberant?”  Cullen immediately regretted mentioning it as he could practically see Varric's storytelling mind roll into high gear.  “What exactly happens with this “ _exuberant_ celebration of faith”?”

Cullen buried his face in his hands with a scathing " _Maker's Breath_ " and muttered into his palms, fiercely regretting even setting foot into the tavern this evening.

“I’m sorry, Commander, I didn’t quite catch that.”  Dorian prodded him in the ribs with his elbow.  “The Inquisitor would like to know as well, wouldn’t you, Ren?”

“Yeah, tell us!” she crowed and turned sideways in Dorian’s lap to lean close to his ear.  She was too far gone to whisper, and he flinched at her volume.  “What is he telling us?”

“How to be _exuberantly_ faithful, my dear.  It sounds very exciting.”

Clearly not going to get out of this unless he made a break for it, which was impossible with the Inquistor’s legs now sprawled across his, Cullen sighed heavily.  “You take a drink, shout “She is with us,” and throw the rest in the fire.”

“I’m sorry, Curly, I’m having trouble picturing this.”  Cullen’s heart sank into his boots as he immediately knew where Varric was going with this.  “I think we require a demonstration.”

“HEY!”  Everyone turned to the very drunk Inquisitor, who slurred.  “That’s alcohol abuse!”

“Hush, Ren,” Dorian cajoled her.  “The show will be worth the abuse.”

She blinked owlishly as she processed the words through her alcoholic haze.  “Oh, okay.”  She moved her legs off Cullen’s lap, sat up as straight as she could, and raised her glass in a sloppy toast.  “She is with us!”

Everyone around the table followed suit, yelling, “She is with us!” before all eyes fell to the Commander, shining with delighted expectation.

Cullen rose to his feet, taking his glass in one hand and the bottle in the other.  He walked over to the roaring fireplace, took a long drink, bellowed, “She is with us!” and hurled the glass into the fire.  The Inquisitor’s table exploded with cheers along with the flames, the rest of the tavern went dead silent, and Cullen strode out through the door to enjoy the rest of the bottle and reminisce in the peace and quiet of his office.

And maybe pray to Andraste that everyone gets too shitfaced to remember this in the morning.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flames of Our Lady - Hissing Wastes, nw of sunstop mts, quarry structure  
> A wine with hues that range from blood to fire, always in that order. In the South, take a single draught, shout, "She is with us," and throw the remainder into a fireplace. In the North, draw steel and march.


	12. Silent Plains Piquette

Krem uncorked the bottle and poured a glass of the piquette for himself and the Inquisitor.  She took the glass with a grateful nod.  She clinked her glass against his and took a sip.  Her head cocked to the side as she considered it.

“It’s… a little weak, isn’t it?”

The soldier chuckled at her diplomatic description.  “That it is.  That’s why the Chief declined to join us and Pavus decided he’d rather… catch up with him than have a drink.  Or, at least, a drink of this.”  Krem stared into the glass, remembering bottles shared with family after a long day.  “It’s Tevinter slave wine, made from the water-soaked remains of grapes after all the good stuff is pressed out.  Only thing my father could afford with what he brought home from the shop.”

“You found it on your mission with Dorian to the Hissing Wastes?”

Krem nodded.  “Pavus was the one who suggested I share it with you.  Said you were always lookin’ to try new drinks.”

Ren laughed at that.  “He  _ is _ always looking out for my best interests.  This is very easy to drink, but I can see why he and Bull would rather not have any.  They’re probably having something stronger.”  She paused uncertainly, eyes flicking from Krem to the wine. “Have you… heard from your father at all?”

He shook his head and drained his wine.  “I had to cut off contact with him after I fled.  Didn’t want anything comin’ back on him because my jig was up,” he said as he refilled his glass.  If the Chief and his lover hadn’t retreated to their room yet, he’d probably join them for that something stronger.  “I do miss him.  He was always supportive of me.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder.  “I hope he’s doing well.”

“Thanks, Your Worship.”  He sighed heavily.  “I hope so, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silent Plains Piquette - Hissing Wastes, venatori camp southeast of sunstop mountain camp  
> An artisanal treatment of a Tevinter slave wine. Grape pomace is soaked and pressed, then buried for a year under the wastes where the first Archdemon fell. One assumes. They keep finding the stuff.


	13. Finale by Massaad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took more inspiration from the location than the description this time, but I think the tone fits.

Solas found Ren perched on the head of a large wolf statue a short distance from camp.  There was something simultaneously ironic and iconic about a Dalish atop the avatar of the Dread Wolf.  He paused for a moment, burning her silhouette against the sinking sun into his memory.  The artist in him couldn’t help it.  She didn’t turn to look at him as he scaled the statue to join her.  She knew he was there though, her ears twitched at the sound of him scrabbling up the stone.

After he took a seat next to her on the great stone head, and she silently handed him an open bottle.  Whisky was not his choice when it came to alcoholic beverages on the few occasions he chose to imbibe, but he took a drink all the same.  It tasted of smoke and peat, but burned smoothly and pleasantly.  He handed it back to her with a nod of thanks.

“Silver for your thoughts, vhenan?” he asked.

Ren took a swig of whisky and ruminated on the question before passing the bottle back to him. “This land was ours, once.  We had a life here, a vibrant one if the ruins are anything to go by.”

Solas nodded, encouraging her to continue.  

“It hurts to actually see how far we’ve fallen.  Scraping by in slums in human cities, scavenging in the wilderness.  We may not have had an empire here, like Arlathan.  But, it was a real life.  We had homes and villages.  We were  _ landed _ .”  She sighed heavily.  “I wonder what it looked like before the humans drove it to ruin.”

He took a sip from the bottle and passed it back to her.  He mulled over the alcohol and this time tasted a hint of cherries and vanilla buried within, hidden beneath the rough exterior.  He was coming to realize it was the same with the elves of this world.  That thought pained him, and he drowned it with another drink, quicker this time to, burn it away.

Still, Solas couldn’t bring himself to leave her in this fugue.  “Will you walk with me, in the Fade tonight?  Some of the spirits here may remember what was, before the Exalted March.”

It was like a cloud lifted.  Ren brightened visibly, her eyes and smile outshining the setting sun.  She took the bottle, corked it, and planted a kiss on his cheek before sliding down the statue to the ground.  He was quick to follow, and she slipped her hand into his as they made their way back to camp.

“I will always walk with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finale By Massaad - Exalted Plains, Riverside garrison  
> The last bottling from the legendary vintners of Ferelden before lands were divided. Tears on the glass as slow as the turning of a reluctant heir, as quick on the tongue as words that can't be unsaid.


	14. Butterbile 7:84

“This stuff is awful,” Ren rasped when she finished her coughing fit.  Normally she quite enjoyed the burn of a hard liquor, but this was just unpleasant.  It was oily and lingered in her mouth like a foul miasma.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Blackwall said in his characteristic drawl.  He was her companion on watch tonight.  He took another sip and considered it further.  “The second taste has merit.”

“Because your taste buds died and went to the Maker on the first.”  Willing to give it another chance, she took that second sip and immediately regretted it.  If anything, it was  _ worse _ than the first.  She choked it down and chased it with water from the skin at her hip.  That didn’t help either.  She could still feel it on her tongue, a restless lingering spirit.  “Besides, Grey Wardens have terrible taste in alcohol.”

“That, I can’t argue with.”  When she moved to pour the rest of her drink on the fire, he plucked her copper mug from her hands and drained it.  “Sacrifices must be made to travel light.  Did I ever tell you of my mentor’s mix?”

Ren shook her head.  “Do I _want_ to know?  I’ve tried some of these mixes we’ve found, and they’re the worst things I’ve ever tasted.”

“I asked him once how many times he’d added to his bottle, and he wouldn’t even hazard a guess beyond ‘dozens.’” Blackwall stroked his beard as he recalled all the different things that had been blended into the bottle.  “In the time I spent with him, I saw him add to his bottle an Antivan port, a whiskey from the Anderfels, and some kind of strange, spicy spirit a noble imported from Seheron.”

“And what did  _ that _ taste like?”  Ren couldn’t decide if she was horrified or impressed. 

“After all that?  Like a bogfisher took a flaming shit in rotten wine.”  He took another sip of the awful liquor as the Inquisitor shuddered beside him.  “So, this is actually quite nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butterbile 7:84 - Hinterlands, found in locked house near Blood Brothers quest  
> A hard liquor that is not so much served as it is brandished. Coarse and indifferent, it is to your taste, or it is not. The failing is yours if you cannot raise—or lower—to the challenge of a distiller told not to.


	15. Vint-9 Rowan's Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is wildly outside my usual style and idk I'm still not sure I like it. It's also mad short. Formerly chapter 12, reordered to fit codex order.

He found her alone on back side of her balcony.  She sat on the floor with her back resting on the stone wall, elbows atop knees drawn up to her chest.  A bottle of wine dangled from one curled hand, open and half-empty.  Its color was the same brilliant pink hue as the sunset sky that reflected on salty trails down her cheeks.   


He didn’t know how long she had been out here, but the swollen red of her eyes and wind-raw skin on her face suggested it had been at least an hour.  He went back into her lavish bedroom and returned with the largest fur from the bed.  He placed his back to the wall and slid down beside her, mimicking her pose.   


She raised the bottle to take another drink.  He gently pried it from her grasp and set it off to the side before settling the blanket around them both.  His arm curled around her and guided her shivering form in against his shoulder.  She turned and buried her face in his soft knit sweater.  She sniffed wetly, and he nuzzled the top of her head.

“I still miss them.”

“I know, vhenan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vint-9 Rowan's Rose - Hinterlands, 2nd floor tavern in Lorran’s Exile  
> Delicate to the nose, comfort to the tongue, and, strangely, a half-remembered whisper to the ears. It is described as—and inspires—a wistful spirit. A vintner's opus.


	16. Absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formerly chapter 14, reordered to fit codex order.

“Darling, do my eyes deceive me, or did you actually find something to drink that _isn’t_ absolute swill?”

Ren was too good-natured to take offense at the truth.  A lot of the alcohol she found was vaguely, if not outright, awful.  She glanced up from her spot on a cushion against Dorian’s chair to see Vivienne eyeing the green bottle in her hands with great interest.  After trading a look with him, and at his nod, she passed it to the enchanter for a better look.

“My, my.  Gaivon’s _la fée verte_.  That is quite a find.”  Vivienne’s eyes gleamed with rarely seen delight.  She turned her gaze back to the Inquisitor.  “Have you ever had this, my dear?”

Ren shook her head.  “Dorian was just telling me it’s an Orlesian brew?”

“It is, best enjoyed in the traditional manner.”  Vivienne paused, considered something, and then nodded decisively.  “Come to my balcony after the evening meal, and we’ll drink this properly.  You’re welcome to come as well, Dorian.”  

Dorian inclined his head with a brilliant smile.  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear.”

At the appointed time, Ren and Dorian went up to the balcony.  Vivienne was ready for them; the bottle was uncorked, and there were three glasses set out on the small table between her sofas.  A dish with strange spoons and a bowl of sugar cubes sat in the middle of the table, as well as a pitcher of water with cold runes inscribed on it.  Vivienne gestured grandly to the sofa that had two glasses, and they took a seat.

Ren picked up one of the glasses and eyed it curiously.  It was fluted, with a strange bubble shape at the base.  “What are these?”

“These are specially designed absinthe glasses, darling, straight from Val Royeaux.  They’re marked for the proper pour of _la fée verte_.”  Vivienne demonstrated, pouring to the indentation in the bubble.  She took one of the strange tined spoons from a dish on the center of the table and balanced it on the rim of the glass.  There, she placed one of the sugar cubes and slowly poured water from the pitcher over it until it had dissolved.  She took the glass and traded for the empty one the Inquisitor was holding.  “There you are, darling.  Enjoy.”

As Vivienne prepared a second one, Ren swirled the drink in the glass and took in the floral aroma. She could definitely see the appeal of the artful preparation and beautifully unique green color to upper-class Orlesian society.  “You said that phrase earlier, the Orlesian one.  What’s it mean?”

“It means “the green fairy,” my dear.  Many an artist in Orlais have dedicated paintings to this drink’s influence on their works.  It’s said to give a clarity of thought not normally granted by alcoholic spirits.”  A proper hostess, Vivienne tried to hand off the second glass to Dorian.

He waved it away with a shake of his head and picked up the empty glass.  “May I show you the Tevinter preparation?”

She gave him a regal nod, and her eyes brightened with curiosity.  “Of course, darling.  Prepare it as you like.”

Dorian poured the absinthe as Vivienne had before him to the mark on the bubble.  Then with the tined spoon, he carefully dipped the sugar cube into the green liquid until it was lightly coated all around.  Then he balanced it on the rim as she had.  Using his magic, he generated a small flame on the tip of his index finger and lit the cube with a flourish.  It and the spoon danced with small flames.  After the sugar caramelized to his satisfaction, he carefully dipped flaming spoon into the absinthe, and it combusted brilliantly with the high alcohol content of he spirit.

Ren gave an appreciative whistle at the show, and Vivienne was likewise impressed.  “I may have to try that at my next soiree.”

“It’s a delightfully flashy trick, but very easy to accidentally splash and set someone’s coat on fire,” he warned with a chuckle as he doused his drink carefully with the ice-cold water from the pitcher.  He raised his glass for a toast.  “To the Inquisitor, and her global alcohol education!”

The clink of fine crystal echoed as they toasted each other and sipped their drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absence - Emerald Graves, on top of boxes in Argon’s Lodge  
> "I am aware of how to spell it. This bottling reflects my wish that the current crop of behatted self-styled cads would disappear. I preferred la fée verte as spirit, not affectation. " —Distiller Emeritus Gaivon
> 
> Most of these little stories have been written either straight from my head or after compiling a ton of information on something I think would be similar to the Thedosian drink and then making shit up, but this chapter heavily referenced [absinthe101](http://www.absinthe101.com/prepare.html)'s delightful descriptions, so credit where credit is due.


	17. Antivan Sip-sip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to the advisor banter taught me that Leliana incorrigibly trolls Josephine all the time.
> 
> Formerly Chapter 19, reordered to fit the codex.

“Leliana, I’m here!” Josephine called up the stairs to the Inquisitor’s chambers.  “What was so urgent that we needed to speak in person?”

Giggling only met her in response, and she crested the stairs to find the Inquistor lounging across the arms of her desk chair with Leliana seated across from her on the sofa.  A bottle and a trio of glasses sat on the short table between them.  Whatever this was, it did not have the urgency the runner implied.

“Oh Josie, come here!  You have to see this!”  Leliana patted the sofa next to her and held up the bottle.  Her Orlesian accent was thickened by the alcohol she’d already had.  “Look at what Ren found!   Doesn’t it take you back?”

Josephine sat down and took the bottle from Leliana.  The protest at being called up here on false pretenses died on Josephine’s lips as she read the label on the bottle.  “Isn’t this what we had at the afterparty for the ball at Lady Montsimmard’s estate?”

“Yes, it is!”  Leliana crowed and took it back from her to pour a glass.  “And it was  _ so much stronger _ than you anticipated.  And the Duke Germaine’s daughter dared you to--”

“No,  _ stop _ !”  Josephine put the bottle down and waved her hands frantically.  “The Inquisitor doesn’t need to hear about this!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ren said, laughing.  “Was this the party that ended with someone’s underthings nailed to a chantry board?”

“Oh, sweet Maker.”  Josephine threw back her glass and drained it before glaring at the spymaster.   Her voice cracked from the burn of the alcohol and came out whinier than she intended.  “ _ Leliana _ , you told her about that?”

“I didn’t mention your name!” she protested and refilled Josephine’s glass.  She looked absolutely unrepentant, smug as a cat in the cream.

“And now she doesn’t have to.”  Ren chuckled and then sat up to pat Josephine’s knee comfortingly.  “I don’t think any less of you.  More, actually.  It’s nice to know you can cut loose once in awhile.”

“I… thank you, Inquisitor,” Josephine murmured into her glass.

“You  _ can _ call me Ren in less-than-polite company,” she said with a wink.  “I’d prefer it, actually.  I’ve been meaning to ask this forever, but can I call you Josie?”

“Of course, Inqui-- Ren.”  Josephine caught herself and blushed slightly.  “I’d like that.”

“By the way, Josie,” Leliana drawled and regained her attention.  “Did you ever get those ba--”

_ “Leliana!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antivan Sip-Sip - Crestwood, Glenmorgen mine near Guide of Falon’Din  
> Careful, this one's mean. Attic-raised mean. Popular among highborn who wish to seem dangerous, but more at home grasped by the neck by those who actually are.


	18. Carnal, 8:69 Blessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here! Just... struggling with the last few. XP

“Right, so, what’s this then?”  Sera plucked the bottle off the table.  “It’s not like that fiery shit you had me try before right?  You don’t  _ look _ like you’re dying.”

“It’s a peach liqueur.  It’s pretty sweet, you’ll probably like it a lot.”  Ren passed a glass to the other elf.  “Kind of tastes like alcoholic preserves.”

“Right… sounds good.”  Sera poured a sample into the glass and sniffed it cautiously.  “Doesn’t seem real festive though.”

“I’m sorry?”  Ren cocked her head to the side.  “Why would it be festive?”

Sera took a tiny sip, and her eyes lit up.   She topped offf her glass and took a seat at the table before she answered.  “You know, the name.  The bottle’s so booooooooring.”

“I believe you’re thinking of “carnival,” dear Sera,” Dorian said and refilled his own glass.  “Carnal is, well…”

“Erotic,” Ren finished for him, waggling her eyebrows and grinning.   


Dorian gave a half-hearted sigh as Sera giggled.  “I was going for sensuous, but yes, I suppose that works as well.”  He cast a sly glance to his left.  “You don’t suppose Dennet was propositioning you when he gave you this?”

Ren rolled her eyes hard.  “Ugh, no.  He’s like old enough to be my father.  He said it was too sweet for him, and thought I might like it.  Everyone who frequents the bar knows we’ll try anything.”

“Okay, whatever.”  Sera waved to regain their attention.  “My point is still good.  Bottle doesn’t match the name.”

“You just need a better look at what’s inside,” Ren said with a wink and handed her the bottle again.

Sera squinted intently at the bottle and saw something that was sunk to the bottom.  “Is that... a peach pit?”

“Mhmm. Hold it up to the light.”

She did as instructed, stood, and held the bottle up to the sconce on the wall.  The pit rocked gently, and intricately carved details came into view as it tilted towards her.  She gave a delighted squeal that silenced the tavern patrons around them.

_ “It’s shaped like your Inquisibits!” _ Sera shrieked and fell back into her chair, howling with uncontrollable laughter.

Ren buried her head in her hands with a long-suffering sigh.

“Well, that’s fascinating.”  Dorian regarded his friend curiously.  “When did Sera see your… Inquisibits?”

“I’m not drunk enough to tell  _ that _ story,” Ren muttered and threw back the rest of her glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carnal, 8:69 Blessed - Hinterlands, Dennet’s house  
> An Orlesian liqueur for the daring, or those who wish to seem so. Said to enhance sensation. And at the bottom, an erotically carved peach pit. The design is plain, but the bottler assures that the act of carving was scandalous.


	19. Abyssal Peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Formerly chapter 16, reordered for codex.

“It’s… foggy.  Is it supposed to be foggy?”

Ren stared at the alcohol dubiously.  She’d seen opaque alcohols.  She’d seen clear alcohols.  But she’d never seen a drink with actual sediment floating in it that slowly settled to the bottom of the glass after it was poured.

Dorian swirled it around in the glass and gave it a similar look.  “I think it’s an unfiltered peach wine.  Or it’s a peach wine that’s gone bad.”  He sniffed it cautiously, and his face scrunched up.   “Or both.  Definitely peach, though.”

“I think it definitely went bad.”  There was a layer of something musty in the smell, like the old library in Skyhold’s basement.  It was utterly rank combined with the vinegary peach scent.  She caught Dorian still eyeing it thoughtfully, despite his displeasure.  “Please don’t tell me you’re going to drink it.”

He shook his head and emptied the glass over a nearby basin.  “Of course not.  I’m just lamenting that it’s undrinkable.  I haven’t had a decent peach wine since I left the Imperium.  Ferelden and Orlais are too blasted cold to grow peaches.”

“Maybe I can ask Josie import some?  Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

Dorian brightened considerably.  “ _That_ is a marvelous idea.”  He tipped the rest of the bottle down the drain.  “It’s about time you started using your power for a little personal fun.  You’ve been disgustingly selfless and well-behaved for a leader of the free world.  What kind of religious figure doesn’t indulge in a lavish vacation once in awhile?”

Ren blew a raspberry at him.  “You know I can’t take a vacation lest a rift open up and demons devour some minor noble’s household."  She sighed.  "But what I _can_ do is spend my nights pleasantly drunk with friends.”

“I’ll drink to that once we figure out what to have instead tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abyssal Peach - Emprise du Lion, Suledin’s keep, on a broken wall  
> Not so much filtered as dredged. Should be kept in a cold, dark place. Also locked. Forgotten as well, if one is wise.


	20. Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, we've reached the finale! Special thanks to EllsterSMASH, LazerTH and MyrddinDerwydd for their comments and support throughout this endeavor. It's been a wild ride. :D
> 
> Also, I reordered the chapters to fit the codex order again. Last chapter posted was Antivan Sip-sip. Sorry for any confusion. XD

“Good morning!”

The thick canopy on the bed was drawn back, and Ren let out a pathetic whine and buried her face into the pillow as bright sunlight assaulted her.  She flinched at the volume of the chuckle above her.  Her head pounded ferociously, like a bronto had danced a jig on it.  Her mouth was dry and tasted like something had crawled in and died a week before.  She was the most hungover she could ever remember being in her life.

“Am I dead?  I think I died.”

“No, but I suspect you wish you were.”  When she cracked open her eyes finally, she saw Solas peering down at her.  He was attempting to keep a serious, concerned look, but the corners of his mouth kept twitching.  “I take it you had a good time last night?”

Ren sat up and willed the world to stop spinning.  She frowned when she tried to recall what had happened, but nothing was coming to her.  It was as though someone had pulled a leaden curtain over that part of her memory, and nothing would budge it. Eventually, she gave up and whimpered, “What _did_ we do last night?”

“You decided to open your bottle of… boot screech, I believe you called it.  It was a strangely flavorless, very strong spirit.  You and Dorian started mixing it with fruit juices and drinking it like it _was_ juice.  Some of the others joined you, and you all became _incredibly_ drunk,” Solas recited.  He couldn’t keep the wry grin off his face any longer.  “Unless someone has since taken them down, _your_ underthings are currently nailed to the sign outside the Herald’s Rest.”

“Oh gods,” she groaned.  This was a bender she wouldn’t hear the end of for a while.  “Did I do anything else Josephine is going to want to kill me for?”

“No.  Shortly after that, I’d wager around your seventh glass, you threw up rather violently and passed out.  What the others did following that, I have no idea.”  He shrugged.  “I spent the night making sure you didn’t choke.”

“‘m sorry.”  She flopped back down on the pillow.  “I don’t suppose you could do anything for this hangover?”

“I’m afraid not even magic can cure poor judgment and dehydration.”  He helped her sit up again and handed her a glass of water. 

At her rather pathetic glare, he chuckled and placed a glowing blue hand on her forehead.  She sighed with relief.  The hard pounding receded to a dull thud.  Her nausea became bearable as the world stopped spinning, and she downed the glass of water. 

The door to her quarters swung open with a loud thud, and the Iron Bull came up the stairs.  In one arm, he supported Dorian, who clung to him like a half-dead monkey.  The other hand held a tray with crackers, cheese and fruit. 

“How’s yours doing?” he called across the room.  Dorian bit off a scathing “amatus, _please_ ” at his volume.

“She just woke up, and I believe she feels as yours looks,” Solas said with a laugh and took the tray from him.

Bull set his remaining burden on the bed.  Dorian sank into the pillows, giving a pleased sigh at finally being horizontal again.  He grunted when Ren flopped back down and dropped her head on his chest and curled up against his side.

“Do you feel as awful as I do?” she asked, not bothering to contain the whine in her voice.

“I feel fantastic.”  Dorian groaned and ran a hand through her hair.  “I ran drills with the Chargers this morning.”

“Liar.”

“You’re right.  I threw up in the bath, and then Bull brought me here.”  He wiggled deeper into the plush pillows under his head and yawned.  Ren was already asleep on top of him.  He waved imperiously at Bull to close the canopy curtain and and pulled a fur over them before also passing back out.

Solas shook his head at the hungover puppy pile.  “Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long for them to overindulge so shamelessly.”

“Pair of lightweights, if you ask me,” Bull snorted and drew the canopy closed.  “Chess and snacks until they wake up again?”

“Of course.”  Solas’ mouth quirked into a lopsided smile.  “Maybe this time you’ll finally beat me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech - Exalted Plains, tower on Eastern Ramparts  
> If you can read this, you haven't drunk it.
> 
> ALSO: Suggestions for maybe a new codex series would be fun and appreciated. :)
> 
> Tumblargh can be found [here](http://kittlesandbugs.tumblr.com)


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